


Igni Ferroque

by riverstones



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Shameless Smut, the world needs more bmww
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-07-16 03:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7250920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverstones/pseuds/riverstones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With fire and iron shall we scorch the earth. AU one-shots. Pointless, happy kink, because the world needs more BMWW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amnesia

**Author's Note:**

> My BatWondy stories were inspired by SinisterScribe’s epic fic. Go read it if you haven’t. I can’t hold a candle to it. I humbly bow down to her glory. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. I apologize for my weakness.  
> Gosh, writing smut is actually harder than writing a straight-up GP story. Technically I could end this with the kiss, but where’s the fun in that?  
> Reminder: Authors live off of comments! Prompts also accepted. Thank you!

White walls. Stainless white ceiling. Sunlight from a wide open window leading to a butterfly garden. A landscape painting on the far wall. Two dozen tiger lilies in a vase by her bedside. 

A pink hospital name tag on her left wrist.

“Diana, you’re awake.” A brown-haired man in glasses stood up from the sofa across the room. She heard sounds of hurrying footsteps from outside. A blonde girl and a tall stocky man in a doctor’s white coat peeked in through the door.

“Heya Wondy,” the blonde greeted cheerfully. “So glad to see you’re okay. You won't believe how much of a pain the brooding bat has been since he found you and you wouldn't wake up from–”

“I'm sorry, who? Who are you?”

Silence. They all looked at her, stunned. 

“You really don’t know us at all?” asked Blondie.

“No, sorry.”

After a protracted awkward moment, Mr. Glasses gave the introductions. “I’m Clark Kent. This is Dinah Lance, and John Jones. We’re your friends.”

“What happened to me?”

John walked towards her and sat beside her on the bed. He examined her face for a long while. Although he didn’t move at all, she felt like he was probing her.

“Amnesia,” John finally said. “Selective amnesia. From the accident, most likely. You seem to have no memory of recent events.” He turned to the other two, and she had a strange suspicion that they were discussing her. Mentally, without words. But that was absurd.

Clark turned to her and asked, “What do you remember?”

“My name is Diana Prince. I have a double-major of architecture and literature from NYU and I am currently employed as an assistant curator at the Metropolis Museum of National History. I like books and owls.”

Clark scratched the back of his head. “Sounds about right. Do you remember anything since you moved to Metropolis?”

“I remember moving to Metropolis a month ago.”

“You moved here two years ago.”

“I see.” She thought about it. “Do I still work for the Museum?”

“Yes, you do.” Clark answered. He seemed to be the leader. “Well, let’s figure this out. Your body is pretty much healed, and has been for some time. There are no problems other than the memory loss. We just need to get your papers in order and you can go home tomorrow.”

 

The next morning, she woke up to see a man changing the flowers on her bedside vase.

“Clark?” she asked.

“Sorry, it’s Bruce.” A tall man, about several years older than Clark. Dark hair with a hint of gray. Handsome face. Vaguely familiar. For a brief moment as he stood against the light, she had thought he was wearing a black cowl. Something must be really wrong with her memory. 

“How are you, Diana?” he asked in concern.

“I’m okay, I think. As well as can be expected.”

He handed her a change of clothes and urged her to get ready. When she came out of the bathroom, freshly changed into her own civilian clothing, he had her discharge papers in one hand and her small duffel slung over his shoulder.

The drive home was uneventful. Not to mention awkward. Bruce barely talked, and she had no idea how to break the ice. His face had an expression so black she was afraid he would bite her if she dared say anything. He seemed to know where she lived, so she figured it was safe to assume they were friends too.

 

First order of business after getting home, since her so-called friends had refused to tell her anything of value, was to find answers. Naturally, the best place for such answers lay within the collective well of knowledge of the entire human race, otherwise known as the world wide web. She opened her laptop and started clicking.

She was dismayed when she discovered her lack of social media accounts. Maybe she had a different alias online that she just couldn't remember? 

She typed her own name into the Google search bar, because only ad-supported fictional TV policemen used Bing. Apparently, she shared a name with an Israeli actress who recently shot to fame for starring in a blockbuster Hollywood superhero movie, so most of the articles she found were not about her. However she did find her old NYU essays on medieval architecture floating online.

When she first woke up from her coma she remembered a strong burning sensation, especially on her arms, so she searched for news on nearby accidents involving fire. A headline caught her eye,  _ Wonder Woman Saves Earth From Cataclysm _ . A few months ago Wonder Woman deflected a large asteroid from colliding with earth and has not been heard from since. She felt a little sad at that, but it was hardly relevant to her own predicament. 

After more searching she came upon an article on a car accident on the outskirts of Coastal city. The car had a Metropolis plate, and the unnamed woman driver survived but was comatose. A month ago. All the circumstances fit.

Well, that was that. Next, who were her friends?

Clark Kent, semi-famous reporter/photographer from the Daily Planet. Dinah Lance, a lawyer from Star City currently on assignment in Metropolis. John Jones was such a common name she had no hope of finding anything useful without other keywords. She didn't get Bruce's last name. Just on a hunch, she tried searching anyway. Bruce Lee, Bruce Willis, and… Bruce Wayne. Bingo. No wonder the face was familiar. Wayne Financial set up a Metropolis branch several years ago and he had been going back and forth between here and Gotham on a regular basis. 

Why was she friends with a multi-billionaire playboy? And, apparently, they were close enough friends for him to drive her home himself from the hospital?

Unfortunately for her, those answers did not exist online.

 

She had been given a clean bill of health, and there was nothing else for her to do but to resume her regular life. Despite having no memory of the past two years, she had no trouble returning to work. Everything she needed to know as a curator she had already learned, and she could always read up if she needed knowledge on recent events. 

Several days after she had settled into comfortable routine, she had a visitor. Mr. Scary seemed to be in a much better mood that day than when they last met. She greeted him, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wayne. What can I do for you today?”

He acknowledged her use of his last name. “You remember?”

She shook her head. “No. I just found you on the Internet. I never did get to ask, how do we know each other anyway?”

“We met at a party, and you were the most beautiful woman there.”

“Am I your girlfriend?”

“I wish. No, you litera—” he caught himself, “quite spectacularly dumped me on my ass. We've been ‘just friends’ ever since.” With emphasis on ‘just friends’.

“I see.” That explanation sounded a bit too convenient, but she decided to take it at face value. 

He had just passed by to inquire about how she was doing. He waited until she could sign off for the day, and he drove her home. He didn't come in when she invited him for coffee. She felt uneasy as she watched him drive away. 

For the succeeding weeks he would make it a habit to visit her at the museum every other day or so. He was one of the museum’s biggest patrons, so her colleagues did not find his visits suspicious. He stayed only for a few minutes, literally just to ask her how she was doing, and then scoot off after she said she was fine. She couldn't figure out why he didn't just text her instead, as he certainly had her number. Her days always seemed brighter after seeing him, however, so she wasn't complaining. 

On Sundays he had more time to spare, and they would have brunch at the museum cafe. They discussed only two things: if she has started to remember anything (unfortunately nothing), or dinosaurs. He seemed to have a fixation for dinosaurs. He was particularly fond of the life-size Tyrannosaurus skeleton displayed in the main museum hall.

Once it was Clark who visited. Sometimes she saw Dinah. Diana only got one day off a week, so they went clothes shopping on a Saturday. When she checked her bank balance, she had to keep her jaw from dropping at the number of digits in her account.

The next day, during her regular brunch with Bruce, she decided to be blunt with him. 

“Am I your kept woman?”

His coffee went down the wrong pipe. After his hacking subsided, he exclaimed, “What the hell?”

“I get an obscene salary yet I’m required to put in only three hours of work every day. I figure you had something to do with that. I also found my hooker costume.”

“Hooker costume?”

“The gold-and-red greek armor bikini thing with the eagle breastplate in my closet. Looks really expensive too. It's a Wonder Woman replica, isn’t it? You have a roleplay fetish?”

“Diana, whatever it is that gave you amnesia really did a number on your head. Maybe we ought to schedule you to see John again? He’s a very competent psychologist.”

“So I'm not your hooker?”

“No. You’re not a hooker. That's illegal. You're an assistant curator. No more, no less.”

“That doesn't explain my salary.”

He sighed, realizing she would not let the discussion go until he came up with an answer that satisfied her. “Until recently you worked on several sensitive projects for me. You are getting hazard pay. For your own sake I'm not telling you any more until you get your memory back.”

 

One day, a couple of kids went over the barrier and toppled over the Tyrannosaurus skeleton.

“Watch out!” she shouted. She barely made it in time to catch the giant femur before it fell on one of the youngsters. The rest of the bones scattered across the floor. Luckily it was a slow day. Not many people were around and no one was hurt.

“Gosh,” they said, faces awash in awe. “You’re really strong, miss.”

“Not really,” she replied as she gently put the femur down. “This is quite light. It feels like it’s made of foam.” She was quite surprised at that, because it was pretty much unheard of for a museum to use foam skeletons in their formal exhibits.

Naturally, she had to spend the rest of the day putting it back together. It took her until almost midnight to finish.

She locked the museum entrance behind her and started walking. She had already missed the last train and had no choice but to hotfoot it home. She disliked walking home that late because her path took her past the seedier part of town.

Just as she feared, several blocks from the museum she found herself being followed. “Hi,” said the man in the hoodie. He walked too close to her, and goaded her into an alley. 

He brought out a large knife and threatened her with it. “Want your purse, miss.”

“I don’t think so.” As if by instinct, her arm quickly shot out towards the knife. She grabbed the blade and it snapped in half.

“Holey—!!” Fear. Suddenly he was in fear. “Are you some kind of monster or something?!” He didn’t stay to find out. He dropped the broken knife handle and ran for his life.

“Diana!” Bruce was running towards her from across the street. Briefly, an image flashed in her mind of a cowl and a billowing black cape behind him. But no, he was just Bruce. He took her hands when he reached her. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she replied. To her consternation, she found herself shaking from the encounter.

“You shouldn’t be walking out alone this late.”

She nodded. She was so glad to see him that it didn’t occur to her to wonder what he was doing there in the middle of the night. He picked up her fallen purse and hung it on his arm. He started to lead her away from the alley. Suddenly she had a wild idea. 

She punched him. Bewilderment flashed across his countenance, but he managed to block her. He dodged her subsequent left hook to his head. She crouched in a boxer’s stance, the motion coming to her so naturally, and jabbed a few more times. He weaved, avoiding her every hit. As if they had sparred together countless times before. Again she saw him in the cowl, and muscle memory took over. 

Her fist connected with his stomach, hard. To her surprise, instead of doubling over, he flew backwards several meters until his back slammed onto the building wall. She was so shocked at what she had done that her fists immediately unclenched and she took a half-step backwards. She blinked, and suddenly he was nowhere to be seen. 

Strong arms encircled her upper body, and the next thing she saw was the ground coming up towards her face. 

“Are you back, Princess?” 

“What princess?  _ Oww _ ,” she whined as he pushed her down on the ground. He twisted her arm tentatively. Finding no resistance, he let her go. 

“Not yet,” he said under his breath in answer to his own question. “Or it would be me on the floor.” He helped her stand up. 

Diana had to ask, “Did those sensitive projects I worked on for you happen to involve physical combat?”

He hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

“That actually explains a lot.” She rubbed her arm where he had twisted it while he dusted himself off.

He walked her home.

 

He kept asking if she was alright, made certain she was fine, and then he bid her goodnight.

As he turned to go out the door, the overwhelming feeling that something was  _ off _ kept nagging at the back of her mind. And it had to do with the sight of his back towards her.

She grabbed his wrist. He looked at her quizzically. He shook his arm in an attempt to get away, but her grip was iron.

“You don't leave,” she said, her voice breaking. 

He asked, “What do you mean?”

“You take me home, sometimes we have dinner or just talk, but… you don't leave.”

She looked into his eyes, two coal-black pits into nothingness. She remembered falling, headfirst, willingly, deep into that endless abyss oh so long ago.

And he knew, that she had finally recognized him.

In one move he stepped forward and claimed her mouth. She gasped but didn't resist. He twined his fingers into her hair, pulling her closer, drinking her in as if she was life itself. She forgot to breathe. She opened her mouth to him, let him explore her with his tongue, and she felt a familiar heat begin to build up in her belly.

“Diana, Diana,” he murmured reverently, “I've missed you.”

His hands roamed her body, eventually settling at the smallest part of her waist. He slid them under the hem of her blouse so he could feel her skin. Smooth. Warm. She raised her arms and he pulled her blouse off. Her bra was in the way. But he knew his way around her clothing and it was quickly discarded. 

He trailed tiny hot kisses down her jaw, down her neck and chest, going lower until he could take one of her nipples in his mouth. He suckled, tentatively alternating between forceful suction and gentle nibbles. She gripped his shoulders. He wrapped her waist tightly in his arms to keep her from squirming too much against him. 

Ah. Her body definitely remembered this.

He was pure heat and she was on fire. Burning from head to toe. Desperately she needed to take the rest of her clothes off. With shaky hands she unzipped her skirt as fast as she could. He helped, his hands grabbing several layers of cloth and pulling, kneeling so he could pull everything down past her knees then her ankles. He slid his fingers between her thighs and pried them apart so he could kiss the valley between her legs. 

She saw blinding white, her head rolled back and she bit her own tongue to keep from screaming. 

Whatever he was doing brought her to unbelievable heights. Was that his tongue? Lips? Teeth? She had no idea nor did she care, completely lost in a puddle of sensation. She kept her eyes closed tight. Her legs bent and her toes curled involuntarily. 

“Ow!” She had bumped her head on a ceiling planter. With a start, she realized she was levitating at the precise height her crotch was comfortably level at his head. 

He pinched her leg to get her attention. She lost her bearings and dropped into his arms like a sack. 

“You okay, Princess?” He asked with a smug grin, which she suddenly had an extreme urge to wipe off his face. Her face and shoulders flushed red, and he laughed at her inability to string words into a coherent sentence. 

They were still in the hallway. She was stark naked. He was not. That meant two out of three things needed to be remedied immediately. 

She turned herself upright. She floated until their faces almost touched. “We’re not done yet,” she whispered. The warrior in her was back, and the warrior wanted him. All of him.

“Barely started,” he agreed, his deep voice husky. His eyes were half-lidded with desire. They were so close it only took a little movement for him to again press his mouth onto hers. This time she pressed back, making mewling noises as she sucked on his bottom lip while she set about to removing his clothing. She wanted his skin on hers. 

Off came the tie, then the business shirt. She broke his belt buckle when it got stuck and wouldn't come off quickly enough to her liking. She wasn't keen on being careful with his things right then. He could afford it. She rubbed her palm at the bulge in his pants, extorting an angry growl from his throat. He grabbed her wrist and he urgently slid her hand inside his underwear. The growl became tortured as her fingers wrapped around him. Inside his pants, not outside. Oh, right, she remembered he liked that.

He kicked his shoes off. His hands on her waist, without breaking their kiss, he guided her towards the bedroom. She noted that he certainly knew his way around her apartment pretty well. The back of her legs hit the bed, and he pushed her onto the sheets without further ado. He quickly took his pants off and joined her.

He hooked an elbow under one of her legs and raised it over his shoulder. He gently rubbed her folds with the fingers of his other hand. He slid a finger inside, then two, stroking her walls to make her moan.

She croaked, “Fuck me already.”

“As my princess commands,” he replied, just as hoarse. He lay on top of her and braced his arms at her sides.

He thrust his entire length inside her in one stroke.

Her back arched, toes curling, and she bit her tongue to keep from screaming. He pumped, in and out, deliberately slow. Just like he knew it drove her crazy.

Yes, she knew this, she knew him very well.

“Tease,” she seethed. She bit his neck, not hard, but enough to surprise him. His arms went slack, and she took the opportunity to flip him over on his back. She sat on his haunches, hands flat on his chest, and took control of their rhythm. He met her every thrust. Deeper. Faster. Squeezing him. Not enough. She bent her body forward, until she found the angle where he could bury himself inside her deepest. He rubbed his hands over her back and ass, spurring her on.

His fingers found the puckered skin of her anus. “Bruce– what are you–”

He  _ pushed _ .

The move was at once so intimate and shocking that it reduced her to nothing but instinct. Her hips ground at him in frenzy as she simultaneously tried to get away from the invading sensation yet reluctantly craved it deeper into her body. He filled her impossibly full, impaled from both sides, she was bursting out of her own skin. Her spine bent back and her body stretched taut, her insides clenched and she saw stars. 

He made an unearthly sound beneath as her convulsions tipped him over into his own orgasm. His muscles twitched, and she milked him for all she was worth as he shot his seed into her womb. 

He removed his finger with a silent pop. Her cheeks blushed at the knowledge he had managed to slide almost the entire length in. Fully sated, she lowered her head onto his shoulder so she could nuzzle his neck. His arms circled around her, eventually coming to rest at the small of her back.

Much later, when her breathing had normalized, she told him, “I don't remember giving you permission to do that. In fact, I remember  _ not giving you permission _ , on pain of broken bones. Way to take advantage of my weakness.”

He chuckled, “Worth it. What else do you remember?”

She thought about it. “Dinah doing escrima, and Clark flying up in space. John is… green. I keep seeing you in a black cowl.”

“Should I wear it next time?”

“Hmm. Maybe. It seems like this is what jogs my memory most effectively.” She ground her hips against him teasingly.

“You should report to the League soon. Everyone is worried about you.” The thing about an international space-based headquarters is that they had no concept of ‘timezones’ and ‘office hours’. Members were active around the clock, and in fact, Clark was on duty at that very moment. Bruce complained, “Ah, but I'm enjoying your company too much right now.” He had been without her for months and was loathe to lose her to the League just yet. 

She lightly traced her fingers on his chest, in the jagged outline of a symbol she remembered that he often wore. “Don't you think we should keep working at my memory first? Some things are still fuzzy to me.”

“By all means,” he agreed. 


	2. Extra Credit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: one night stand. College, no-powers AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blatantly inspired by Romanogers ‘Devil In a Corner Office’ by mylifeisloki, a super-awesome fic by an uber-awesome writer, again I apologize for my weakness. A cookie goes to anyone who spots the zelda reference.
> 
> I used to lurk Ao3 reading every romanogers and wonderbat fic that came up. Now that I’m writing my own, I can’t bring myself to read other fics anymore because it severely messes my trains of thought. I’m sorry if I stick to my own works for a while until I complete them. :(

His name was Bruce Wayne, and he was very annoyed. Orphaned at the age of nine, raised by the family butler, sole heir to the Wayne fortune amounting to billions, CEO (in-training) of his own tech company since he came of age. At six feet four, he stood tallest among his friends. He cut a handsome figure in a gray dress shirt and charcoal slacks (if he did say so himself). Hands in his trouser pockets, dark hair cropped short, his dark eyes narrowed suspiciously at his companions.

To his left stood Oliver Queen, blonde, fellow billionaire, whom he had known since they were six. His other friend Wally West, carrot-top, lanky track star, joined their group in high school. By some miracle all the of them managed to get into different courses in M.I.T., and they still hung out together regularly.

At that moment, on the evening of his twenty-first birthday, they were gathered outside a semi-popular craft microbrewery located a few blocks from Harvard Square. Between him and Ollie they could buy half the bars in Cambridge with their petty cash, yet Ollie had to pick this, of all places.

“Guys, you shouldn't have.”

“Lighten up. It's your birthday. We haven't seen you all summer.” Wally said. “Alfred told us you'd been holing up in the basement with your experiments again. That can't be healthy. People need sunlight, you know.”

“Sunlight. Vitamin D. Good for the bones,” Ollie agreed wholeheartedly. Bruce facepalmed. Sunset was over an hour ago.

“C’mon. Let’s not hang out here,” Wally motioned for them to come in.

As the door closed behind them, Bruce pressed his lips together in a valiant effort to keep his jaw from dropping in stupefaction. Was that a real birthday cake on the counter? With candles??

“You _really_ shouldn't have.”

His eyes wandered a bit, and he saw a sight that made him want to take the words back.

Beside the cake stood the most gorgeous woman he had ever beheld. She wore a floor-length backless little black dress that perfectly showed off a figure ten. Midnight black hair, ruby lips, flawless cream skin. Piercing sapphire eyes that had no business existing outside his dreams.

She seemed anxious, and kept looking over her shoulder as if waiting for somebody. To his surprise, her expression completely changed when their eyes met. She started towards him with purpose in her step. Did he just feel his heart drop impossibly into his stomach?

“Bruce?” she looked daintily up at him. She was taller than most but they still had a difference in height. He managed a nod and hoped his discomfiture wasn't evident.

“We hired a redhead, didn't we?” He overheard Wally whisper to Ollie, who merely shrugged. He pretended ignorance.

“Happy Birthday." Without warning, she pulled him into a kiss. She was soft and smelled nice and his I.Q. instantly dropped two hundred points. When she pulled suggestively at the zip of his pants, he lost it. His friends, hell, the entire universe suddenly didn't matter. He pulled her out the alley, into a cab, and clumsily into his apartment.

They barely made it into his bed. One thing led to another and—oh no, he may be inexperienced, but she knew exactly what she was doing. They must have broken how many laws of physics in as many moments. Or maybe not, as he literally couldn't think straight. So tight. She squeezed him as he came, and (to his overwhelming embarrassment) he had almost fainted from sensory overload. He didn't know girls could do that.

After a scant fifteen minutes, with her hands and mouth she managed to coax him into going again. He didn't know _he_ could do that.

He had always been a quick study, and he gave as good as he got. He found the spots that made her gasp. By sheer force of will he held on until he felt her quivering around him, until he was damn sure there was no way she was faking (because he read that girls often did that), before he spent himself inside a second time.

He was supremely disappointed to find her gone in the morning.

To his embarrassment, he realized he hadn't spoken a single word during their encounter. What was he thinking! (He wasn’t, was he?) What must she have thought about him! (Would she think about him at all?) Wait, was she even real?

He surveyed his apartment for signs that the previous night wasn't just a figment of his imagination, and found none. Doors locked. Phone untouched. Wallet intact. His and only his clothes in the laundry hamper. Sheets slept in by one body. He found empty condom wrappers in the trash bin beside his bed, so that must be proof that at least _something_ happened.

He picked up a pillow. He hesitated, wondered at his sanity at what he was doing, and then he sniffed. He caught the faint scent of something certainly different from his shampoo or deodorant. A subtle feminine perfume. Okay, she was definitely real.

She had left no number, no name, not even an alias. Whoever she was, she had been thorough.

 

To no one's surprise, Wally was late to class the next day—first day of the semester, no less—due to his motorbike mysteriously running out of fuel while parked at a curb. To everyone's surprise, Ollie was late too, for exactly the same reason with his Lexus.

“Judging by the state of our vehicles this morning,” Ollie commented, “do we assume that last night was a disaster?”

Bruce chuckled. “That's just on principle. On the contrary, I want to kiss both of you.”

“All good things?”

“All good things,” he vaguely agreed. He had no intention of going into detail, or even how far he had gone with the girl, even if he trusted his friends with his life. Last night he left the bar with a wonderful woman, that was that. “Well, sort of good things, because after we parted I couldn't find a single trace of her. I didn't dream her up, did I? You guys saw her, right? Do you have her contact info?”

“We have no freaking idea who she is,” said Wally, and Ollie shook his head in the negative.

“In other news, I can't believe philosophy is still a required subject. People, it's 2016!”

“Just think of it as a free A.” A hush fell over the class then as their professor arrived.

He literally fell off his seat as a figment of his imagination walked to the blackboard. Ignoring the commotion, she directly started a lecture about Confucius without so much as an introduction.

To say he was stunned was an understatement. He glanced at his friends, and he could see they were just as confused. Despite it all, he couldn't help but notice that his goddess was just as beautiful in glasses and a tweed suit as she was in an evening dress.

Someone joked, and half the classroom laughed. She smiled, added her own epithet, and the other half laughed too.

At some point he caught her eye. Her recognition was unmistakable, and she almost dropped her chalk. She recovered quickly. Except that she didn't so much as glance again at his entire side of the hall for the rest of the period.

He signalled to his friends to go ahead without him, and waited until the classroom was almost empty. He walked to her as she was picking up her things to leave.

“Hi. Can I help you?” she asked a little too formally.

He cleared his throat. “Diana Prince. Former USAF, Military Intelligence Analyst. Five years on tour of duty. Decorated war hero. You're incredible,” he said, and meant it. He explained, “I look up all my professors each semester. It completely slipped my mind to look for a photo of you.”

“I see. You are…? Oh god, don't tell me you're _that_ Bruce? Thomas Wayne Foundation?”

“I am, unfortunately.”

“Your foundation is paying my salary. But you knew that, since you looked it up.” It wasn't a question. Her eyes narrowed at him. “I'm still going to whup your ass if you ever get out of line in my class.”

“Understood, Professor Prince,” he said. “Can I call you Princess?”

“Good day, Mr. Wayne.” Clearly a dismissal. With an acknowledgement, he turned and walked out the hall. It was shaping up to be an interesting semester.

 

He woke up to the sound of vacuuming. “Do you really have to do that now, Alfred?” he asked groggily.

The British-born butler answered impetuously, “I clean your apartment only on Saturdays. Boston is three hours from Gotham as the bird flies, which is why you’re in an apartment instead of driving home daily.” Bruce noticed that Alfred wore casual clothes when visiting instead of the impeccable butler uniform he wore at the manor.

Bruce stood up and looked around. The minimalist apartment he rented was sparkling clean. It had a studio at the back that he had converted to a workshop where he spent most of the time he wasn't at university. He headed there after his morning rituals.

“Here are the personnel files this month,” Alfred said as he handed Bruce a bunch of folders.

He was surprised to see Ms. Prince’s file in the stack. The photo didn't do her justice. The private file contained slightly more information about her than the article he remembered from the Huffington Post, but not much. He spied a note in red ink, in his own handwriting. Apparently, he had explicitly ordered his headhunters to hire her, away from the competition, whatever it took. He vaguely remembered it. He scanned the file again, wondering what about it stood out. Was there a specific thing? Or was it because she was overall a remarkable woman?

He skipped the file after signing it and the others that required his signature. He returned to his experiments. He hardly noticed that Alfred had served him two meals and two snacks.

“Master Bruce, aren’t you going to get ready?”

He didn’t even look up from his tinkering. “For what?”

“For the annual Thomas Wayne Foundation Night. This year would mark the third anniversary of your absence since assuming the role of President.”

He cursed under his breath. “That’s tonight? Is there any reason I should go?”

“Nothing but my disappointment at you, sir.”

It was one of those moments where he couldn’t tell if Alfred was completely serious or not. He decided the former wasn’t worth the risk. “Well, we can’t have that.”

“The theme this year is ‘Prom Night’. Formal wear. There will be dancing.” Alfred raised a bowtie in each hand. “Would you prefer the red or the blue?”

“Black, please.”

 

The university gymnasium had been repurposed for the Foundation Night. He arrived fashionably on time.

Just inside, he saw a small crowd. Curious, he went nearer. He could see a familiar black head of hair. He heard the whispers around her, “It's Diana Prince,” “Retired, teaching philosophy right here,” “War hero,” “So young, saved so many lives,” “Medal of Honor!” The target of the gossip was clearly flabbergasted. He decided to step in.

“May I have this dance?”

The sapphire eyes lit up when she recognized him. “Yes!”

He took her hand, and in one smooth move they were twirling on the dance floor. She wore midnight blue, in a more conservative cut compared to the first night he had seen her, but just as elegant.

He asked, “What happened back there?”

“An overly enthusiastic classmate of yours dropped my Medal of Honor story. I don't normally attract that much attention. What about you? I heard that you didn’t attend these parties.”

“Hey. I am the president. I ought to show my face at these formal events every once in a while, right?”

“Right,” she agreed. “So, tell me the town gossip.”

“I'm afraid I don't have any.”

She pursed her lips. “I have an interesting one. It seems like the mysterious masked Gotham criminal has been sighted around here. You know, the one that's baffled the police so much because he keeps getting his accomplices caught and yet himself leaves no trace?”

“That is interesting,” he told her, but only to be polite. “You know, I try very much to avoid discussions on politics and recent events.”

“I see. I thought you would be interested since you're from Gotham. What do you want to talk about instead?”

“Shakespeare. Let's talk about Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” She raised a perfect eyebrow at him.

“Yes. Do you know that they recently discovered…”

He led her away from the dance floor and told her all about it over dinner.

 

He was awakened by his phone. (Not the vacuum alarm today?) The ringtone belonged to Ollie. He pushed the answer button and placed the phone near his ear. “Hello?”

Immediately he had to push the phone away as the speakers blared out street noises and Wally’s shouting. “—uce! Where are you man? Why aren’t you here yet?”

“Ow, guys. I’m still asleep. It’s freakin’ Sunday morning! What is it?”

“Extra credit! We’re getting easy peasy extra credit!”

“What?”

Wally’s excited voice on the line was replaced by Ollie’s more somber one. “Bruce.”

“Yeah?”

“Let me tell you that there is a wonderful professor here who just doesn’t have the same spring in her step or sparkle in her eye whenever her star pupil isn’t around.” Ah, so that was it. They were just teasing him, he was certain. “We’re at the Museum of Fine Arts. Are you coming?”

“Yes,” he replied. Because of course he was.

 

“I understand these two, since they flunked last month’s midterms,” Diana said exasperatedly, “but what are you doing here, Mr. Certainly-Getting-An-A?”

They four of them stood outside one of the storerooms in the museum basement. Diana had her arms folded as she confronted him. He shrugged. “Insurance. I learned the hard way that you can never have enough extra points.”

“Fine.” She took out a bunch of keys and unlocked the storeroom door. “The museum recently received a new shipment of donations from Thailand and need help with the inventory. You’re to catalog all of these boxes, and I’ll want a ten-page essay afterwards on Buddhism and Thai art. It’s worth ten percent extra credit.”

And so they spent the entire day unboxing, cataloging, and re-boxing statues of Gautama Buddha in all shapes and sizes.

“That was great. Nicely done, you all. Don’t forget, the essays are to be sent to my email, anytime before the final exams.”

As their group started to leave, Diana held him back. He motioned to Wally and Ollie to go ahead, that he would catch up to them in a bit.

“Yes, princess?”

She ignored his use of the moniker and went straight to the point. In a low voice, she told him, “The masked criminal appeared again last night. Foiled mugging. That's the second time this month. Ten sightings in all since the semester started. He's getting bolder. You want to know what I think?”

“Honestly, I really don't—”

“I'll tell you anyway.” All of a sudden she was angry. “I don't think he's a criminal. I think all the goons the police have caught were not his accomplices. Instead, he's actually been stopping them. But here's the problem. I think he's just a boy behind that mask. A wannabe playing at being a superhero who should stop before he gets himself hurt, or worse, killed.”

He sighed heavily. “Why are you so sure I care about this crazy masked person?”

“Because I'm sure he's you.”

“Wha- what?!” he asked disbelievingly. He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Princess, I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

The twin sapphires glared back at him.

 

A few weeks later, he made his first mistake. Unfortunately for him, it was a mistake that could prove to be very painful. Or worse, it could prove to be quite irrevocably fatal.

He was about to find out first hand what happened when you bring non-projectile weapons to a gunfight.

“Y-you’re that masked dude,” the man told him, the pistol pointed directly at his abdomen. “I can’t get caught. I’ve already got a warrant for homicide.”

“Let’s talk about this,” Bruce said with his arms raised.

“No! No talking. Dead men don’t talk.” He cocked the gun.

It exploded from his hand, as a bread knife flew out of nowhere. A moment of confusion, and two small arms went around the man’s neck in a choke hold. The man went down, and from behind the unconscious form as it fell he saw a very familiar pair of piercing blue eyes. In his gut he knew it was in his best interest to leave the scene immediately.

He turned and ran. “Oh no, you don’t!” Diana shouted as she gave chase.

He slid into an alley. She followed. He jumped a fence. She took a shortcut. He was faster but he couldn’t lose her. After several city blocks, she had very nearly caught him.

He wasn’t going to get away like this. He brought out his latest contraption, which he had hooked to his belt. He stopped running and turned around. He started to point it at her, but paused abruptly, his hands shaking. He had never tried this on a human. And he would never point a weapon, no matter how non-lethal, on _her!_

That moment of uncertainty was all she needed. She weaved to his side and twirled around behind him. Something hit the back of his spine, quite painfully, and before he could blink she had him on the ground in an arm lock.

Ouch. What a grip.

“I’ll let you go,” she said, “but don’t you dare run. I guess it doesn’t matter since I know where you live anyway. Didn't I warn you not to try this again?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Your voice synthesizer isn't fooling anyone. Cut the act.” She poked him at a very precise spot underneath his left ribcage. “Remember happy birthday night? You have a fresh scar, right here. I spent five years in Lebanon and Syria. I know bullet wounds when I see one. Now why would a spoiled rich boy have that kind of wound?”

Silence. He had no answer to that, except to yield. “Alright, you win.”

She sniffed, “I always win.” She helped him stand up. “Nice costume, by the way. All black, urban camo, no spandex. I was half-expecting a cape, but thank god you have more sense than that.”

“How did you know I was here anyway?” he asked as he pulled his mask off.

She rolled her eyes. “Any idiot knows how to read a police twitter feed.”

But not just anyone could put the pieces together and so quickly, he thought. “Are you going to turn me in?”

“Of course not.” She walked over to his dropped contraption and picked it up. “Actually, your form isn’t too bad. You’d probably do great once you take formal training. And this… I have to admit it’s pretty ingenious.” Suddenly she gasped. “Oh my god, you have a real working hookshot.”

She burst into laughter. “Ahahaha. You, sir, have managed to impress me,” she said when she could speak again. She wiped at her eyes. With one hand she threw the hookshot at him, and he caught it deftly. “Tell you what, I might even decide to join you when you manage to get your act together. I'll see you around.”

And just like that, she turned around and walked away.

Jaw, meet floor. It was at that point he realized, one way or another he would always want that woman to figure in his life, in whatever form or reason, as long as she was there.

He laid low after that. More school work, more research, less going out at night. Much, much less.

 

Again, he woke up to the relentless sound of vacuuming. Alfred simply never gave him a break. “Finals are next week,” the butler reminded him.

“Yep. I got it.” He was in the running for straight A’s that semester. As usual.

Later that day, after he had spent most of his time in front of his laptop reading, Alfred had to ask, “Are we in danger of a terrorist attack?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You've been looking at a lot of articles about USAF involvement in the Arab Winter.”

“I'm interested in a veteran.”

“I see. A female veteran of the psychotic kind?”

“Yes to female, but far from psychotic. My philosophy professor.” He frowned thoughtfully at the laptop screen. “I'm not quite ready to break into military archives for information on her yet.”

“An improvement from the sort of females you usually associate with. I hope you don't mess this one up.”

He shook his head, “It's not that kind of association.”

Alfred’s brazen look said that he didn't believe him at all.

His phone beeped. “It's from the microbrewery,” he told Alfred. “I gotta go.”

 

 _She's here tonight_. Bruce slipped the bouncer a twenty as thanks for the tip sent via text message, and then he went in.

She stood by the counter, at same place as the first time they met. The atmosphere couldn't have been more different. Casual clothes instead of dressed to the nines. Concentrating on her drink instead of waiting for somebody. Piercing blue eyes just the same.

“A pretty girl like you shouldn't be drowning her sorrows in cheap beer,” he said as he took the stool beside hers. “That's the cheesy one-liner I would have used last time if you hadn't taken my breath away. You still do, judging by the way I can't string together a coherent sentence right now.”

She smiled without looking at him. “Are you sure it's me, and not alcohol?”

“I've been here two minutes. Does it look like I've had a chance to drink?”

“You're not like this in class.”

“In class I go on autopilot. In here,” and in formal dinners, in museums or on the city streets, “you're a phantom that I can't wrap my head around, and it's killing me.”

“Funny, I thought you alone could read me like an open book. What do you want to know?”

He wanted to know many, many things, anything and everything. Where did she learn those combat moves? What drove her to do the things she did? How did she constantly manage to second guess him? Does she like music and movies and what was her favorite brand of chocolate? He asked instead, “That night. Why?”

(Did she just snigger at me?) She swirled her drink slowly. “I heard your friends talking about you to ...some girl, a redhead if I recall. To go with you for a dinner and a date, no more than that. They described you like you were some real nerdy piece of work. I was intrigued. When I saw you, you didn't match the description and I… I felt something. There aren't many things in this world that can make me feel. If I let you pass I knew I would regret it.” Her eyes twinkled in a teasing way, just a little bit. “I also like to think I gave you a more memorable night that the she would have.”

Well. Memorable was an understatement. “Most men tend to remember their first time.”

Hey mouth dropped open. “Oh, Bruce, I— You didn't act like— I’m really so—”

“Stop right there. I will get pissed if you apologize for giving me what was bar none the best night I've ever had.” He paused to look at her. “How about you? Do you regret it?”

“Never,” she answered without hesitation. “I will never regret that night, or anything that has to do with you.”

She got lost in her own thoughts, turning back to her drink. He tried to speak, but a hand held up to quiet him. She retreated into herself, into a place where he knew he had no hope of following. _What can you see that I cannot, princess?_

Whatever world it was, it seemed to exist in her glass of beer, if the way she stared intently at it was any indication. No, he realized too late. She wasn’t daydreaming. She was staring at the _reflection_ in the glass...

“I’m getting too old for this kind of shit,” she grit her teeth as she placed her drink down and turned away from the counter.

She moved almost too fast for him to follow. With quick steps she marched towards a couple heading toward the exit. The man had one arm around the shoulders of a girl, who seemed to be sick. Without warning, Diana grabbed the man by his loose arm and by the collar, then she kneed him to the floor. She twisted his wrist and placed her foot on the back of his neck, forcing him to keep his face down.

Diana motioned to Bruce to help. “She's been drugged. Call the police.”

“No!” the girl shouted. She stood dazed, her arms folded, and spoke with a heavy European accent. She was young, barely out of her teens. “No police. I don't want trouble. Thank you for saving me, but nothing happened. I just want to go home.”

Bruce carefully took the young girl’s hand in his. Diana nodded at him, and he started to lead the girl away. “Come on, I’ll take you home.” Security had begun to arrive. As they exited the bar, he heard Diana speak behind him in a tone he had never heard her use before.

_“You little prick. Next time make sure you try that shit on me instead so I can send you to hell.”_

Until that moment he never realized that his goddess could be so scary.

He hailed a cab and paid for the trip in advance, plus a huge tip. He gave the girl his number and instructed her to text him back after she had got home safely. He told the cab driver the same instructions, to text him when the girl was safe at home, just to be doubly sure. By the time the cab had gone, he saw Diana getting escorted out by a couple of security guards.

One of the guards was telling her, “Sorry, you did good, miss, but I think it's time you went home tonight.”

“Are you banning me?” she asked anxiously.

“No. No, we aren't. We just want our patrons to enjoy the rest of the evening. Come back tomorrow, or whenever. Good night.”

Bruce took over, placing his hand on Diana’s elbow. “Hey, I'll see her home. What happened to the other guy?”

“We found rohypnol on him. He’s going away for a while.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

As they turned away, Diana looked confused. “Why are you still here?”

“I got her a cab and all the details taken care of. She’ll be safe,” he answered. From the way Diana looked right then, it was her that he worried about. He took her hand, and she was far too warm. He turned so he faced her straight on. “Tell me, who are you, really?”

“I’m… I’m really drunk right now. Ahaha,” she stammered while she grinned crookedly at him. He blinked at the blatant lie. With both hands she grasped his arms. She leaned heavily towards him, and he caught her. He could hardly smell any alcohol on her breath, and she moved without a doubt like all her faculties were intact. Her hands on his biceps were steady. If she was drunk then he was the queen of England. It dawned on him that she was making an excuse, and he had to be the epitome of stupidity not to play along.

For the second time that night he found himself hailing a cab, this time together with his princess. He ushered her in, and she told the cab driver directions to her condominium. They were hardly gone on their way when she tugged at his hair and pulled him into kissing her. He was happy enough to oblige.

 

As they lay together naked on her bed, he noticed that she had turned quiet. “Princess?”

She was looking at something behind him. Something far away that he couldn't see.

“We almost botched that rescue mission,” she explained mechanically. “We severely underestimated their network. Maybe there was a mole, we never found out. Two of ours down. We weren't leaving their bodies behind. We managed. The diplomats were all safe. We just needed to get to the chopper.

“We didn't see the guard on our way out, hidden among the enemy corpses. They used child soldiers. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, just a boy, really. He held a gun to Trevor’s head. I could smell his panic. He’d pull the trigger any second.” Her voice belonged to the dead. “So I rushed him and snapped his neck. I felt his life slip through my fingers… and they gave me a Medal of Honor for it.”

A knife twisted in his gut at her empty expression. She was—how old? Enlisted at eighteen, plus a five year tour of duty, now twenty-three? Just a couple of years older than him, and already she had fought in several wars. When he had watched his parents die, he thought he carried the weight of world on his shoulders. Yet here in front of him was a girl whose burdens made his own seem insignificant.

He took her face in both his hands and gently tugged at her to look at him. “Diana, focus on me.”

She did. The glazed look in her eyes disappeared, only to be replaced with something akin to desperation. She licked her lips while at the same time pointedly glancing at his. “Kiss me. Fuck me. Make me forget.”

So he did. He kissed her, mildly at first, but he sensed she needed more. She opened her mouth and he plunged his tongue deep, tasting her, drinking her in.

She asked him to take her from behind. So he did. She turned around and he cupped her breasts as he pushed her body against the mattress. She was dry and so tight it was almost painful. Almost wrong.

“Diana—”

“Please, whatever you do, don't stop.”

He slid one hand down her abdomen until he reached the place where they were connected. He stroked, slowly, softly coaxing her until he felt her tension release and he could slide himself inside her more easily. She shuddered.

“Bite me.” With one hand he pulled her hair to the side to expose her nape. She gasped as he clamped his teeth on the curve of her neck.

“Harder. Use me. I want you so much.” He thrust harder. She screamed in gratification, a guttural cry with her face pressed against the sheets. He moaned into her shoulder. He was close.

He made sure she took her pleasure before he finally gave in to his.

She relaxed underneath him, and he slid over to her side so he could see her face better. He gently wiped at the tear stains on her cheeks. She was already asleep.

He took their scattered clothes and cleaned up her suite a little. He washed up and made sure he was presentable. He locked the door behind him as he left her alone in the middle of the night.

He didn't want to leave, but he knew that staying would only cause her problems. Until the semester ended he was officially her student. That insufferable goody-goody streak of hers would never let her live it down if he was still there in the morning. This way he could let her pretend that nothing had happened.

He didn't know for how much longer he could stand this, having to pretend that he didn't care. Because, loathe as he was to admit it, he found himself caring very much.

 

She quit, a week later, immediately after finals. The news was all over the class. Professor Prince was leaving the country to take over an ailing aunt’s antique shop in France.

He didn’t get a chance to see her again until class card distribution. He got an ‘A’, naturally, but his grades could go to hell right there and then and he wouldn’t care any less. He couldn't bring himself to believe the sick aunt cover story. And the only time she ever lied was when it had to do with him.

He had aced her class, true, but it was just like he had aced all the others. He avoided her outside their lectures all semester, even in the university hallways. He never visited the Foundation offices. He had made certain there were no floating rumors about them. Alfred or Ollie would have told him. Ollie teased them himself, but that was within their closed group—his friends were discreet if they were anything. The only time he and Diana were seen together alone in public while he had been her student was that one night at the microbrewery. Exactly once.

Did she tender her resignation because he couldn't wait the one week until the end of the semester to keep it in his pants?

“Princess,” he whispered angrily to her as she stood across from him behind the teacher’s desk. “Did you quit because of what happened?” _Between us,_ he dared not say aloud.

“No.”

“Look at me when you say it.”

Slowly, she did. The mask was firmly in place. “My reasons are none of your business, Mr. Wayne.”

“What if I wanted to make it my business?”

“Then call me in ten years, _boy._ ”

He left the lecture hall in a huff. A move that he would later regret.

 

He almost didn’t manage to make everything right. Almost.

She sat by a window seat on the Boeing 747 direct flight from Boston to Paris, her chin in her hand as she gazed at the airport outside. She didn’t notice him until he took the seat beside hers. The sapphires widened at him in disbelief.

“What are you doing here?” she asked incredulously.

“Do you have any idea how quickly a little old lady will say ‘yes’ when asked to switch seats in first class?” he smirked at her. “Two seconds flat.”

He turned to face her, and he spoke earnestly. “I'm a spoiled rich boy and I refuse to wait. Don't run away from us, princess. Don't run from me. There's no aunt, no antique shop in France.” He did in fact illegally break into the military archives for that information. “Look, if you really want me to stop, I will. I won't ask again. Say no and I'll jump off at the first stopover. We can spend the next seven hours in awkward silence, then I'll get out of your life.

“What I hope for is that you decide to give us a chance. Because I really like you, Diana. Sometimes I get confused if ‘like’ is the proper term, and I want to find out.”

He watched the emotions play over her fetching countenance, and he realized he was holding his breath. After a while, her eyes dropped, and she turned away to look out the window. He sighed, resigned, and leaned back into his seat.

A gentle hand slid over his, and he instinctively held it. She said simply, “When we get to Paris, you're taking me dancing.”

He smiled at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that story has been months in the making and I'm glad to have it out of my hair. I'm doing vowels, so stay tuned for the next episode “Inferno” which has a lot less plot, a lot more smut as we follow the bat when he dies and goes to hell.


	3. Inferno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce finds himself in the afterlife.

 

Bruce Wayne did not believe in gods, or monsters, or Santa. He certainly did not believe that an afterlife existed. He always thought that when he died, everything would just get swallowed up in the black abyss of perpetual unconsciousness. So imagine his surprise when he discovered that an afterlife was, after all, indeed very real.

The last thing he remembered was an explosion. Superman and Doomsday were fighting somewhere in the stratosphere, and Luthor’s mini-deathstar had been about to crash into Metropolis. There had been no time for anything fancier, so he rammed the Javelin straight into it to deflect it towards the ocean. He managed to eject at the last second, but his pod caught the full blast of the resultant shock wave.

Batman went out with a spectacular bang.

The next thing he knew, he was tied spread-eagle to a flat, igneous rock, parallel to the ground. Leather rope bound his wrists, ankles and neck. Despite the minimal physical restraints, he found himself completely unable to move. His entire vision seemed tinted with a golden orange. Blazing fires burned in the background. Oddly, he didn't feel the heat. He felt absolutely nothing. After a while, he realized he was wearing nothing either.

Thus he found himself deep in the center of Inferno.

Wasn't his life supposed to flash before his eyes? He waited. And waited. The flashing images never came. Then he remembered that the images supposedly came  _ before _ death, not after.

In the distance to his south, a figure approached. Female, slightly ethereal, seemingly made out of both flesh and flame. The figure became more and more familiar as it got nearer. When he finally recognized it, he groaned.

Why couldn't it have been Selina or Talia? He'd even take Harleen in a pinch, for goodness sake. No, of course his unholy afterlife had to taunt him with a phantom of the one woman who could not possibly be there, the one he held far above all others.

Diana of Themyscira.

His first thought was one of regret--that before he had died, he wished he had told her how he truly felt about her. That he had spent less time chasing after the dregs of the Gotham underworld and more time focusing on the things that were important, such as being honest with himself and taking more chances with the one woman he loved.

His second thought was that she was jaw-dropping naked. 

He was in hell. Hell meant torture. He was going to get tortured. By the ghost of a naked Amazon princess. He should be scared, so why was he gruesomely anticipating it?

Not only did hell exist, but apparently hell also had no concept of foreplay. The phantom went directly to business and grabbed his exposed shaft with both hands. She wrapped her fingers around him and stroked, gently at first, then varying her rhythm, until he had grown to his full length.

She licked his balls. Did she ever do that to him in reality? He couldn't remember.

She stood, then swallowed him whole. Tight lips pressed on the base of his shaft and he could feel the hard back of her throat. Slowly, she sucked him up and down. He cursed, filthily, in eleven languages. It was alright to curse. He couldn't get damned any further.

She released him with a sucking pop. Fluid trickled from his tip to her bottom lip, and she languidly licked it off. She raised up, then placed him inside her cleavage. She pressed her breasts together and rubbed him.

Okay, he was absolutely, positively certain Diana never gave him a tittyfuck while he was alive.

She stopped abruptly, as if she somehow sensed he was getting close. She hovered over him, then placed her crotch over his face. She ground her hips, enticing him, wordlessly demanding that he service her with his tongue. So he did.

It was so base. Humiliating. Diana would never do this. At the back of his mind he couldn't help but guiltily wish she had.

She moved down his body and rubbed her breasts over his chest while kissing him full on the mouth.

What kind of eternal punishment was this that it was making him relive every sick, twisted, perverted fantasy he had of the woman of his dreams, and  _ enjoy _ it? Maybe he wasn't in hell. Maybe this was actually a sick, twisted version of his own, personal… heaven?

Searing pain shot through his limbs, from the base of his neck all the way to his extremities. White-hot, intolerable pain. His skin everywhere tingled with hurtful pins and needles. So intense it made him want to vomit, had there been anything to regurgitate in his empty stomach.

Not heaven, then. Maybe it was purgatory.

His phantom floated to eventually sit on his navel, her legs wide open, exposed. With two fingers she rubbed herself. Round and round her folds, then up and down. With her other hand she kneaded her breast, twisting her nipple. She thrust her fingers inside, then pushed her folds open, teasing him with the view. He twitched involuntarily. Had he been alive she would have already given him apoplexy, and she wasn't even touching him yet. 

She placed her entrance over him. Deliberately, agonizingly slowly, she lowered, until her molten heat engulfed him entirely. Then she moved, riding him, as if his pleasure was her sole purpose of existence. His eyes rolled up to the back of his head and he groaned tortuously. His phantom was so, so sweet. So fucking tight, just like the real one. Even childbirth had been no match for his Themysciran princess’s kegels.

She was so good, but he couldn't finish. However close he got, his bound body refused to let him finish.

Damnation.

She pulled herself off him. She floated until she was parallel to him and their faces were almost touching.

And then the phantom cried. Ghostly tears fell upon his cheeks, and the phantom wiped the wetness away. Her hands grazed his hair, gently combing the strands. She cupped his face. She placed a soft, loving kiss on his lips.  _ Wake up, please wake up soon, I’m not ready to take on a world without you… _

He woke up.

The first thing he saw was her. He saw the worry on her innocent face. Beautiful as ever. An adolescent Diana. But the eyes were wrong. The eyes were… his own?

“Helena,” he croaked.

“Papa!” She jumped forward and caught him in a tight bear hug. He was lying in a hospital bed. He recognized the paint scheme as belonging to that of Gotham General Hospital.

“Careful, sweetie. Papa’s not invulnerable like us,” said a familiar voice.

“Duh, Mama.”

“Go on, call Grandpa Alfred and Uncle Clark and tell them that your Papa has woken up. They're worried sick.” With an acknowledgement, Helena bounded out of the room.

Diana told him, “I keep telling you, we ought to retire soon. Helena’s already twelve. She takes after you so much. I'm sure she's known for years about what we do, but she just doesn't say anything.”

“How long was I out?”

“Three days. Your spinal nerve got severed just below the cranium. You were paralyzed from the neck downwards. Luckily they were able to restore the nerve connection during emergency surgery with J’onn’s help. It was touch-and-go for the first twenty-four hours, but J’onn is certain you'll recover fully.”

She had been crying. He reached for her hand, and she squeezed back reassuringly. She said, “I wasn't  _ too _ worried about you waking up. You had a lot of REM activity. What were you dreaming about?”

Should he tell her? She was going to kill him for real.

What the hell. Live a little. “You know, wife, it's funny you should ask that…”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the next episode “Operational Hazard" where Agent Bruce trains a spunky new recruit into the Space Marines. Or not, I don't know yet.
> 
> Reminder: Comments! "Lol, you misspelled xxyyzz." You can do it :D


	4. Arkteia

Hunting season had begun on the island paradise of Themyscira. Diana wasn't having much luck. She needed luck, for this year’s solo hunt was especially important for the youngest of the Amazons. Her success would prove her worthiness as an adult and a warrior. 

The Arkteia, her coming of age festival, would be held tomorrow. She had less than a day left to catch a bear. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. She wasn't beaten yet. With her fists clenched and a determined expression on her face, she marched forward through the trees.

Her garb consisted of a light woolen chiton and sandals—not the mixed leather armor used during training—which tired her far less during her hunt’s extended treks while she searched for her prey. Military armor wouldn’t do her much good if she ever went head-to-head with a bear anyway. The rest of her gear consisted of a strong spear, a long coil of thick rope, and not much else. This was a hunt meant to capture, not kill.

She squinted. The shadows had grown long and daylight had turned a pale yellow-orange. Sunset. Not good.

She climbed a tree. At the top, she noted her current position relative to landmarks—river to her east, mountains to the north where she had set up camp. She looked all the way up. She did have one thing going for her, she supposed. Clear skies with the full moon at its apex meant she would have exceptional visibility that night. Down she climbed, back to the hunt. 

It was about an hour after sundown, under the bright moon, when she finally found bear tracks. A large male, judging by the size of the paws and the distance between steps. It was alone. Perfect. Her spirits up, she quickly yet carefully followed the trail.

The tracks led directly to the river, and she stopped short. The bear went into the dark water, but during the low temperatures of the late autumn season, especially at night time, she was hesitant to swim across. She scanned for a bridge. Finding none, she decided that her best bet was to jump across via a set of conveniently positioned rocks.

Her trajectory was perfect. Unfortunately, she miscalculated the slipperiness of her landing spot, and she ignominiously fell into water.

_ Splash! _

She managed to hold her breath as she went under. The icy cold seeped through her skin and she grit her teeth as her body rolled with the torrent. She lost her spear. Luckily this part of the river was not too rocky, so she only had water to deal with. Forcing herself to remain calm, she straightened her form and swam deliberately with the current.

She broke the water's surface, gasping for air. She wildly reached for a branch, a vine, anything to grab on. A strong gloved hand gripped hers, and she found herself dragged up and out of the water. The thought barely registered that someone was carrying her, none too gently. Before she knew it she was kneeling on the dry grass of the riverbank, her chest heaving as she took deep life-giving breaths.

“Are you alright?”

“Never better,” she grinned sheepishly as she wiped sediment away from her eyes and face. It was her own fault she fell in the river. Her hair hung in dripping rivulets down the sides of her neck, and she wrung it to get the moisture out. Then she realized she didn’t recognize her rescuer’s voice, when she ought to know everyone on the island. Abruptly she was on her feet, alert. “Who are you?”

She narrowed her eyes at her unknown savior. Human. Tall. Wearing solid black, he was a silhouette in the moonlight. A half-mask covered his face. Luminous blue-green slits instead of eyes. On his helmet were two points—horns? ears?—seamlessly protruding at the top in line where his ears should be. Broad shoulders hidden by a thick cloak. The stranger's voice had sounded deeper than that of any who lived in Themyscira. A low pitch she had read about but never heard before.

“You're a man, aren't you?” She crouched in a battle stance while instinctively reaching at her hip for a sword that wasn’t there. “Why are you here? By our laws, no man may set foot on Themyscira.”

“Hold on, your highness,” he raised his hands in supplication. She felt odd at the honorific, for no one on the island addressed her as royalty. “You sent me here.”

She stood up straight. When she spoke her voice was regal. “Explain yourself.”

“You sent me. I'm from the future,” he deadpanned.

She stared.

He stared back. An owl hooted in the distance. With an invisible shrug, he continued, “I know it sounds lame when I say it like that. But it's the truth. Use your lasso on me if you want.”

That caught her by surprise. “How did you know about my lasso? It's not  _ my _ lasso—”  _ Not yet _ , she thought. Maybe there was substance to the stranger's tale. “I don't have the lasso with me.” She frowned thoughtfully.  “If I really sent you back in time, tell me something only I know.”

“You think Antiope set up the bear hunt because you stole her honey cakes.”

Diana gasped in shock. “I would never tell anyone that!” She raised her hands to cover her cheeks in childish embarrassment. “How many cakes?”

“Six cakes. Two with apricot filling.”

He was correct, down to the specific detail. She might as well own up. “It's true. I took those cakes. I don't think she actually knows, she just suspects it. I think this whole Arkteia thing is her way of getting back at me.”

“Arkteia?”

“The coming of age festival for girls. Mine is tomorrow,” she answered. She crossed her arms irritatedly. “But Antiope’s version doesn’t make sense. She said all Amazons need to hunt a bear before we can be considered adults. It doesn’t match what I read. Over at the mainland, the Arkteia is when fourteen year-old girls do a lumbering bear dance at Artemis’s temple to celebrate the goddess,” she waved her hands around in imitation of the dance. “There’s nothing in the books about hunting bears.”

The man in the mask chuckled. “It never occurred to me that you were always a bookworm. Of course it's obvious in hindsight.” He turned and looked around. “Are there any bears in Themyscira?”

“There are a few bears. They become active this time of the year when the fish spawn. So,” she turned serious. “Did I say why I sent you here?”

“No. You said you couldn't tell me—it would break some unwritten rule of time-travel or some such thing. You also insisted that I be frank about who I am without revealing too much, and that today was very important for you.”

“Huh,” she frowned thoughtfully. “Nothing about an invasion? War? Plague? Natural disaster?” He shook his head in the negative. “You really don't know?”

“No. I really don't know,” he replied with finality. His tone softened, “All I know is that I could never refuse you.”

“We are starting this conversation in the middle.” She held her hand out. “Hello, I am Diana of Themyscira. If you're telling the truth, I suppose you already know who I am. Who are you?”

“Bruce.” He clasped her extended hand. His handshake was firm. “I'm a friend,” he said, although there was a slight hesitation at the last word. “Someday, anyway. What did your future self mean when she said you already know the reason I need to be here?”

To be honest, right that moment she was stumped. She knew nought of any prophecies regarding time travelers or dark mysterious strangers. The only unfulfilled prophecy the Amazons still held was about Ares. Could he be…? No, this situation was way too out of the blue for the Olympians. Her gut told her the person standing before her was not the god of war.

She gave it a second thought. Some sort of vague idea began to form in her mind. “I probably need your help for something?” She looked him up and down. Oh, suddenly she had a pretty fair idea. “Come with me.”

 

The forested hills of Paradise Lost were steep, but he had no trouble keeping up with her as they climbed up the inclines. 

He had lent her his cape, which she accepted gratefully. The night was not overly cold, nevertheless gallivanting in the jungle while drenched to the bone was not a good idea. The fabric weighed as much as three of her own wool cloaks sewn together, yet it remained supple so as not to impede her movement. Ah, textile from the future, she thought with a sideways grin. The idea of advancing technology amused her. All in good time. Perhaps he really did know her, for even among her warrior sisters few besides her would wear such a heavy garment with ease. He stood a few inches above her in height, so on her the ragged end of his cape dragged along the ground. He didn't seem to mind.

“I’m sure there's more to tonight than me pulling you out of the river. I'm supposed to help you capture a bear?” He guessed as they passed through a small clearing. “That must be some bear.”

She laughed. “Not quite. I may have been on the hunt for a few days already, but I don’t think I’ve come so low as to require an outsider’s help. No offense.” The trail led them between a couple of crooked trees. “I have something else in mind for you.”

They soon reached her campsite, halfway up the mountain, upon a fairly wide ledge. A pair of white beech trees guarded the sole entrance on one side, with the rest of the space enclosed by either tall rock or a sheer drop. Several dry logs were littered about, while the ashes of a used fire stood by the far wall.

Selene had reached the zenith of her path across the sky, and the gentle autumn breeze blew warm from the sea. In the distance, her city twinkled with tiny embers, its marble towers glowing in reflected moonlight. Beyond Themyscira’s stone walls could be seen the ever-turbulent waves of the Ionian. Diana gestured towards the horizon, her tone smug. “I camp with a view.”

Her companion seemed mildly impressed. Not one to dawdle, he walked to her camp and got a fire going before she even thought of taking out her tinderbox. Would the future’s wonders never cease.

She followed and handed him back his cape. The cape was oddly cozy, but she preferred her own. He promptly clipped it back on. She said, “Thanks for the rescue. I’m going to change before I catch cold.” He nodded silently, before walking towards the edge of the cliff. Facing towards the city and away from her, made himself comfortable upon an ancient stump.

Now that she had some semblance of privacy, she set about to changing out of her sodden garments. Near the cliff face, she took off her girdle and chiton and hung them on several tree branches to dry. She pulled out her rucksack from inside the rock cranny she had hidden it in, and haphazardly rummaged about her pack. She had brought spare clothes, but the night air felt good on her skin and she didn't want to wear a scratchy dress just yet. Instead she grabbed her long silk-lined cloak, which doubled as her sleeping blanket, and wrapped it completely around herself.

She walked over to where her newfound companion sat brooding. Motionless, he could be mistaken for a statue. She cleared her throat. “Have you ever been to Themyscira?”

Bruce pressed his lips together, pausing before answering her. “At the risk of messing up the timeline, I don’t think I’m supposed to answer that.”

Definitely a yes if she ever heard one. She turned towards the city. “So you’ve never seen this before?”

“At night? No, I haven’t. It is beautiful.”

“You sound like a person who hasn't seen much beauty in your life,” she observed. “Is that what the future is like? Without beauty?”

It took a while before he answered her. “You'll discover in your own time.” She glanced at him, curious at his tone. She could tell he carefully chose what to say. He used a term she knew to be unique to her own culture, “Man's world is full of evil, but you will find there is enough that makes it worth fighting for.”

She was curious of everything about him, of course. He knew about the Lasso of Truth, about Antiope, and about ‘Man’s world’—things no outsider, whether man or woman, ought to know. “You said you couldn't refuse me. If so, would you mind taking off the mask? Please.”

He didn’t want to, she could tell. But his word was true. Gingerly, reluctantly, he hooked his thumbs under the flap of his cowl and in one move pulled the helmet off.

Close-cropped jet black hair, with a high widow’s peak and parted in the middle. Pale skin, high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. A tiny mole above the left brow. Sad, dark eyes that had already seen too much of the outside world. He looked about her age, give or take a decade. Maybe two.

She hesitantly took a step towards him. He remained impassive. She had a hunch he was always this way. A silent and stoic man. So why him, she wanted to ask her other self. Certainly he was attractive, in his own way, but good looks was not a deciding factor on choosing a partner. And why hide such a face? “I want to ask you so many questions, but at the same time I feel like you wouldn’t, couldn’t, or shouldn’t answer them.”

“Heh,” he chuckled. “You were always genre savvy too.”

That irritated her, just a little bit. So he thought he knew her, eh? “Since you brought up genre savviness, let's get to it then.”

In a swift move she chucked off her cloak and let it fall to the ground behind her, leaving her nude. Startled, Bruce jumped up backwards in alarm and almost tripped over his own feet. “What are you doing—?” She closed the distance between them. With one hand at the center of his chest, she pushed him away from the cliff edge until he completely fell over by the campfire. She straddled his abdomen, a determined expression on her face.

“I sincerely hope I don't have to explain this, but barring any actual calamities there's only one reason I would send a man back in time to the eve of my own coming of age ceremony.”

“What?” His countenance changed from befuddlement to shock as understanding dawned. “Princess, I'm not going to—”

“Why not?” she asked in mock innocence. “Oh, this is awkward. I really didn't tell you anything, did I? I probably thought it would make a good joke on you or something.” She placed her hands on her hips, as if preparing to lecture him. “The Arkteia officially marks my coming of age. You know, turning from child to woman. Emphasis on  _ woman _ . I turn fifty in a few hours.”

“Even if it's you— especially since it's you! There is no way I'm making love to a teenage—”

“Not fifteen. Fifty. Five, zero. I'm not a child by any standards. Except my mother’s and aunt's, but I don't want to discuss it.”

“Fifty! You certainly don’t look— Wait, Amazons come of age at  _ fifty _ ?!”

“Yes. Supposedly. We are immortals, hence a very long lifespan. It could also be just an elaborate farce. Like future me told you, I think Antiope just made up this Amazon-style Arkteia to get back at me for those cakes, and everyone else is playing along. Of course I'm not allowed to use the lasso on them…” She pouted. “I already said I don't want to discuss it.”

His expression was akin to panic. “You barely know me!”

“But I would  _ know _ you someday, wouldn’t I? And I chose you,” she answered simply. She wanted to add, but decided against saying it aloud, that he was so obviously smitten with her future self that even she could see it. She had seen her allegorical sisters fall in love with each other sometimes—Amazons could marry, in fact—and she knew what infatuation looked like. She figured she was—would be?—just as smitten with him in return, given that her future self chose him for her Arkteia.

If she stopped to think about it, it was all so confusing. Better not to think, then.

She pulled him up by his collar and leaned towards him, but he stopped her. “No?” she asked, her tone pleading. His grim expression relaxed. She felt the tension in his muscles release as she gripped his biceps. He would stay, and an unexpected sense of relief surged through her chest.

“I could never refuse you,” he repeated mechanically. A fierce look came over his eyes. He grasped her face and pulled her head close to his. “It's not necessarily a bad thing.”

They kissed.

Oh, so that was a kiss. Lips grazing that she could feel not just at the point of physical contact. The touch brought her high, dizzying and light-headed, and yet she was falling, and her soul was hollow, wanting to be filled, all at once.

She felt fire on her skin of her waist, and she realized he had removed his gloves. Oh.

She wanted more. A lot more. More of  _ what? _

Skin, she supposed. His mouth on more of her body. His touch... just his bare hands on her abdomen was electrifying. What more if…

The rest of his armor needed to come off. She pulled away and pushed him down, then reached under his belt for the hem of his garments. His armor was strange, but that was expected, wasn't it? Where were the buttons? The buckles? Her chagrin must have showed, because he chuckled as he took the cloth from her hands and pulled his tunic off.

He was human. He was a warrior. A toned body that could only be achieved by constant, rigorous exercise. In raw strength he may be no match for her own—no human was—but she would bet six months of sweetcakes that he could easily go toe-to-toe with any of her sisters. His chest and arms bore myriad marks of battle. Field medicine was part of her training, and the veterans had taught her the weapons that caused such wounds alongside the proper way to mend them. An ugly scar on his flank came from a dull, serrated blade. On his left arm, burn scars. But the scars he possessed the most were made by weapons she had never seen. Briefly she was afraid, not of him, but of the outside world that had done this to him. Yet despite the scars there was an undeniable kindness in his glance she was certain he was unaware of.

In a flash of clarity she understood why she chose him.

“What?” he asked, a hurt expression plain upon his countenance. She hadn't realized she had been staring. “Did you change your mind?”

“No, not at all,” she replied, firmly and without any hesitation. She leaned forward to wrap her arms around his neck. “In fact, I am absolutely certain now.” She again straddled him, his pelvis against her thighs, while she threaded her fingers through the hairs at his nape. Determined, she pulled him in for another kiss, which he reciprocated readily. His hands snaked about her waist as his tongue invaded her mouth. And she felt him—felt  _ something _ —even as her mind told her he wasn't actually touching her there, in that place deep between her legs.

She liked this, maybe. She felt feverish. It felt so odd. But she didn't want it to stop. “I don't know what I like,” she exclaimed.

He smirked. “Don't worry. I do.” This time he did touch her down there, gently, lightly, causing her to jump at the first contact. She groaned as she ground her hips instinctively against his palm, her body seeking his closeness, still wanting more. The hand at her waist prompted her to bend. His lips slid down across her skin as she arched her spine backwards, until his mouth could envelop her breast in warmth.

“Oh, gods,” she breathed. So much warmth, on her chest, and upon the points where he pressed against her. She was losing it. Not totally. Not yet. Her hand sought where she knew his body would be different from hers. She felt him through fabric, and was rewarded with a husky growl. “Aren't you supposed to… uhm,” she squeezed, just a little. He was hard as a rock. “...use this?”

“Wait, princess,” he murmured, “you're not ready. I might hurt you otherwise.”

“But I read,” she protested between gasps, “doing it with a man is supposed to hurt.”

“Let me show you not everything you read is true.”

He pulled away and she instinctively gaped at the sense of loss, but he quickly took both her hands in his. He indicated her to stand so he could remove his trousers. He then lay upon his cape, pulling her down with him. Their fingers intertwined, and she braced herself straight over his prone form.

“Dance for me, Diana,” he commanded.

“But that’s not in the books—”

“Trust me. Just dance.”

She danced. She sashayed her hips from side to side in time to inaudible music. She couldn’t think, couldn’t remember any steps, so she let muscle memory dictate her movements. He watched her, enrapt. She was short of breath, despite not really doing anything but kneel and twist in the firelight, her breasts heaving. He let go of one hand so he can palm her crotch. She was so wet between her legs. Her face burned in humiliation all of a sudden. Was it supposed to be like this—!

“It's fine,” he assured. She had said her thoughts aloud. “You're doing fine.” She gasped as he slid a finger inside her. It was slick, and easy, and teasing, and her hips swayed on their own, just wanting to  _ feel _ . More. She must be mad. Slowly, he guided her down his body, until she felt something slide against her that was bigger than a finger. The contact felt different. Smooth, like liquid silk, if that made sense. This was it. He …fit… against her. Like they were matching pieces of a perfect puzzle.

“Push down only when it feels right,”

She pushed down, until his tip was barely in. He gripped her upper thighs, and it took all his control not to pull her or thrust himself upward. He held still, and let her dictate the timing.

“Don't rush,” he whispered hoarsely. She tried to follow his guidance as she continued to grind against him. Instinct was strong. Her instinct screamed that she wanted him inside, she needed him in her as deep as he could go. She couldn't wait. She pushed down all the way.

She was on fire. She  _ was _ fire. Her bones were magma and her blood was lightning. He filled her so completely. He was right. It didn't hurt at all. She tilted her head skyward, and the heavens were closer to earth in that moment than they had ever been.

She danced upon him until she climaxed.

Little by little her movements slowed as she breathlessly savored all the new sensations. But he wasn't done with her yet. With a pained grunt, he flipped her so she was flat on her back. He slid his palms over her arms, his calluses a stark contrast against her flawless skin, until he gripped her wrists and held them pressed above her head. With a single, ceaseless stroke, he was once more deep inside.

The fire rekindled in her womb, a burning that waxed and waned in time with her partner's movements. Ah, friction, she remembered the scientific term. The heat pooled below her belly, incessant, steadily moving outwards. Her chest and shoulders were flushed. He switched both her wrists to a single hand, freeing his other one to palm her breast. He lowered his head so he could lick the pulse point at her neck. Oh how she liked that.

Not just a time traveler, was he a mind reader too? Or were they truly lovers in the future, that he could know her so well?

“You're making that face. Stop it,” he murmured onto her skin.

“What face—”

“Your thinking face. Stop thinking. Just feel,” he pulled all the way out, only to thrust in deep, and she moaned in response. Again. And again. The tip of his tongue traced swirling patterns of heat on her skin. Another thrust, a little faster, hitting her just right. Oh so right. He knew her and what she wanted, knew all the tiny things about her she didn't know herself.

Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. She bent her hips forward so he could reach deeper, causing him to groan. Faster, harder,  _ please. _ He was enjoying this too, if the way he pushed down on her was anything to go by. When she pressed her heel just below his buttocks, his movement became erratic. He roughly whispered her name. “Diana, don't—”

“Don't pull out,” she begged. She could feel his urgency. She was close as well. “Whatever you do, don't stop.”

He sharply sucked on her skin without warning and her entire body seized in ecstasy. Waves of euphoria burned from her center, outwards through her neck, her arms and her legs, all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes. Unparalleled. It was all he needed. With a hollow cry he spilled into her, while he pressed himself as close to her core as was physically possible.

He rocked her gently as their breathing gradually returned to normal. She whimpered and clutched at his shoulders when he tried to pull away, so he kissed her mouth as he waited for her to calm down.

“Are you alright?” he asked in concern. She nodded. Her lips twitched into a shy smile that reached her eyes.

“Never better.”

 

The night sky was still dark overhead when Diana sat up. “Some of it is true,” she said offhand. She unconsciously rubbed at her collarbone where he had kissed her earlier. A love mark would have stayed on a normal human, but her skin was unblemished.

“Hmm?”

“This. What the poets call ‘love’. It is fantastic, like the books said. I never truly understood until now. All that risque pottery...” she trailed off. He looked at her in question. “Nevermind.” She scooted slightly closer to his side and lightly kissed his ear. “Thank you,” she whispered. “You give me hope that someday, I would surely have done something good, if someone like you is in my future.”

“Aren't you going to sleep?”

She shook her head. “Not tired. Aren't you?”

“I want to, but I can't stay.” He sat up, then gathered his clothes to get dressed. He put on his underpants, trousers, then his tunic, while she watched him. “How much longer until dawn?”

She noted the position of the stars relative to the horizon, and mentally calculated. “The sun is still hours away.” As he put on his gloves, she blinked at his visage. She could barely see the trees through him. He was turning transparent.

“My time is almost up,” he said. Boots on, his belt clasped, and quickly. “I suppose I should say goodbye, but I'm going to meet you again as soon as I disappear from here.” He took her hand, and she squeezed his fingers uncertainly. He pressed her knuckles to his lips in an unfamiliar, foreign gesture. “We will see each other in a while, princess.”

Just as he pulled his mask down, he was gone.

Many years passed, and she didn't meet him. Years turned into decades turned into centuries. She left Themyscira. She met other people, she met other men. Still she never met him. She began to doubt, and wonder if he had been nothing more than a dream.

 

“We need to talk.”

The Bat growled menacingly as he exited the prototype chronos gateway in the League Watchtower laboratory.

“Alrighty,” the Flash exclaimed as he glanced up from his terminal. “Don't mind me, people. I'll just see myself out.” His place abruptly stood empty while the automatic exit doors opened and closed with a red blur.

Cyborg raised his hands in mock surrender. “Your vitals are fine, the gateway’s metrics all look good, and the flux capacitor is stable. You guys don't need me here anymore.” He carefully took backward steps, and in another moment he too had left the room.

Wonder Woman remained to face the dark knight's ire. Bruce glared, and she met him stare for stare. She looked no older than the Diana he was with barely moments ago—the same Amazon girl of a thousand years ago. He may not be able to refuse her, but that didn’t mean he would let her get away with it. He stomped over to where she stood, footsteps silent but his presence commanding. Not to be trifled with. Nevermind that he was but human to her demi-deity.

He seethed as he loomed over her, “You said it was a matter of cataclysmic proportions. Since when did  _ that _ ever count as—” Diana put a finger over his mouth to stop his tirade.

“Well, duh. If you hadn't gone it would have caused a time paradox,” she explained to him as if it was the most logical thing in the world. She grinned slyly. “You're the world's greatest detective. Figure it out.”

He frowned behind the mask, the exposed part of his face impassive, all the while his emotions in turmoil. He didn't know what to think anymore. 

Did she recognize him when they first met? Was this why she was never intimidated by him even before they had become friends? Why she never left no matter how much he pushed her away, or had unintentionally hurt her in the past?

Had she always known?

He told her, “I still have a lot of questions.”

“Sure,” she replied, all business except for a slight twinkle in her eye. “I'll answer the best I can. Let's say, over dinner… somewhere private?” She firmly hooked her arm around his elbow. “Silence means yes.”

He sighed in resignation. She tugged at him, and he let her lead him to the exit.

“Did you catch the bear?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, stay tuned for “Operational Hazard” where Bruce is a space pirate and Wondy is an undercover chief of police… or not. I don't know, I've been stuck on ideas. I just really want a story where Wondy says, “You're an operational hazard, Mr. Wayne. A real pain in the bum.” The first time she says it, Bruce is being his annoying dooshy playboy self, then later she says it again under, uh, kinkier circumstances, if you know what I mean...


End file.
